


Batting Order

by kaasknot



Series: No clock to kill [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Does it count as HTP when it doesn't actually involve Hydra?, Enquiring minds want to know, Gang Rape, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt with not nearly enough comfort, Involuntary orgasm, M/M, Multi, pre-serum steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gonna take your turn with your fairy <i>roommate</i>, Barnes?" He doesn't bother lowering his voice, and Steve jerks his head up, slack-jawed and wide-eyed with dawning horror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batting Order

**Author's Note:**

> *clears throat* Dipping my toe into the Hydra Trash Party. I read the prompt and three hours later there was a complete first draft, which I think means I should probably reexamine my life choices. "Thanks" to stoatsandwich for coming up with this trash compactor bullshit, you're a goddamn evil mastermind.

It starts on a hot day in June. Steve gets home before Bucky, and he's in the kitchen trying to coax their aging stove into heating a pot of soup when Bucky comes in the door. It starts with Steve jumping a vertical foot in the air, the pan clattering ungracefully against the burners. Bucky freezes, his hand on the doorknob, and they stare at each other for a tight minute before Steve sighs and lets out a shaky smile. "Hey, Bucky," he says.

"Hey," Bucky replies warily. Steve's wearing a clean shirt; his hair's damp, and he smells of soap. It's late afternoon; Steve prefers bathing in the dark of dawn, before Bucky wakes up. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah. Mr. Doyle gave me a raise, on account of my good handwriting." He's turned toward Bucky, but he stares fixedly at the stove. "Says it's the easiest time he's ever had with the books."

Bucky watches the hunched line of Steve's shoulders. "Thought that was last week."

"Yeah, well." Steve shrugs. He forces a grin. "I'll finally be able to keep you in pomade and clean socks." His tone is wrong; the joke falls dead in the air between them.

"What am I, your kept woman?" Bucky knows the rhythm of these conversations, even if the beat is off. He hangs up his coat on the nail by the door.

Inexplicably, Steve relaxes. He looks up at Bucky, and that old, sly humor is back in his eyes. "Don't worry, Buck, I'll treat you good."

His gait is stilted that evening, and for the next few days. Bucky doesn't think anything of it. _Steve's feet are acting up_ , he thinks. _Steve's back must be sore_. He kneads at the perpetual knot of muscle in Steve's back whenever he's close enough; he offers to boil up water so Steve can soak his feet. Steve bats his hands away, and his eyes, when he turns Bucky down, are dark.

He doesn't think anything of it. Steve's a contrary son of a bitch, Bucky's known that since they were twelve. His body's acting up, but he won't let Bucky lift a hand to help him, not ever. Bucky doesn't think anything of it, God help him.

But it keeps happening. Every now and then--every two or three weeks, Bucky thinks, looking back--Steve is scrubbed pink when he comes home, a clean shirt on his back and his hair damp over his brow. Those nights, Steve is bruised and limping, and it boils Bucky's blood, how Steve shrugs it off as nothing.

"Shut up and let me look at it," Bucky snaps, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the tub. Steve gives a strained yelp and jerks back to his feet like a hot poker caught him on the ass. The moment is poised crystalline and sharp between them.

Steve tries to put on that awful wry smile, but it wobbles. "Sat wrong," he says. He runs a hand, red and raw across the knuckles, over his mouth, and Bucky notices for the first time that Steve's lips are swollen, just a little.

"You sat wrong," Bucky says slowly, and watches as Steve flushes a dull red. He can't meet Bucky's gaze.

"Not much padding."

Steve can sit his bony ass for entire shifts on an unforgiving wooden chair in Malcolm Doyle's back room, and now the bathtub has him squeaking? Worry and suspicion crawl through Bucky's chest.

"You keep frowning like that you'll get wrinkles," Steve says. "No girl in Brooklyn'll want you, then."

Bucky could care less about the girls of Brooklyn. "What's going on, Steve? Is--should I be looking for someone to pound?"

" _No_ ," Steve replies, his stubborn jaw raising. "Just the usual jerks. I've got it covered."

Bucky's learned to be stubborn, too. "Yeah? Well, Mrs. Ford's starting to look at me the way people looked at my Da, so how about you tell me what's going on?"

"Mrs. Ford should keep her nose out of other people's business," Steve snaps, and Bucky stares, shocked.

"The hell has gotten into you?" he asks.

Steve flushes again, so hard his ears turn red, and his glare is hot enough to scorch. "None of your damn business, either." He pushes past Bucky into the parlor, long since converted into Steve's room. He doesn't have a door to slam, but he pulls the curtain across in a decisive way, and with the news clippings and sketches he's taped up against the glass Bucky can't see in. Bucky stands in the middle of the kitchen, the washcloth in his hand dripping on the floor.

The next morning Steve is sheepish and quiet. He apologizes with a blush on his cheeks, glancing up through his thick dame's eyelashes, and Bucky has to swallow hard to get his oatmeal down. _Christ_ , he shouldn't look as good to Bucky as he does. Bucky mumbles his own dismissal, and clings to the reestablished equilibrium with both hands.

But that doesn't mean he forgets. Not this time.

The next time, Steve doesn't come home until it's dark out, and Bucky is near to tearing his hair out with worry. Mrs. Ford next door swears she hasn't seen him all day, and when he rings up Mr. Doyle he says Steve left at 4:30, as usual. Bucky paces until Steve comes staggering in, his nose bleeding freely and his shirt sloppily buttoned.

"What happened!" Bucky rushes over, taking his arm. Steve yanks it away, only to wince and stagger into the wall.

"Nothing."

"Bull _shit_ it's nothing! Steve, what's going on?"

Steve sighs, deep and rattling. "Clear off the tub, would you?" he asks, staring at the floor. "I need to take a bath."

Bucky does, because he doesn't know what else to do. Steve's been more than a little reckless since Mrs. Rogers died, and the tired look in Steve's eye reminds Bucky of the darkest weeks after she was buried, when Bucky was afraid to leave him alone when he went to work in the morning.

He sets the biggest pot in the sink to fill and leans the board covering the bathtub against the wall. It's tedious, filling the tub, but they make do. Bucky dumps the first pot in cold, then sets the second on the stove to boil. Steve is undressing; the button-up is no problem, but he winces when he raises his arms. He won't meet Bucky's gaze as he plucks at his undershirt. 

"Could use a little help," he says, and damn him if it isn't the least gracious request Bucky's ever heard. But that's Steve Rogers for you, so he bites his tongue and goes over to peel off his shirt for him. Up close he smells like a dirty locker room. His pants are filthy, streaked across the knees and the seat of his pants, and his undershorts cling to his inner thighs. Bucky frowns; they look wet.

When the penny drops, it's all he can do not to make a sound. He glances up to Steve's face, but Steve won't look back. Bucky swallows his gorge and helps him pull them down. Steve is modest when he changes, always with his back to Bucky, but now he keeps his back to the wall. Bucky's hands tremble as he helps him into the tub, and around the pot handles as he dumps the hot water in.

"Just tell me who," he says, turning back to stare at the spitting faucet.

Steve's voice is steady as a God damn rock. "Doesn't matter."

" _No_." Bucky whirls to pin him with a glare. "Don't you fucking _dare_ , Steve, don't you pass this off as nothing. _Who_?"

Steve glares right back. "It. Doesn't. Matter."

Bucky scrubs a hand through his hair. "It--yes, it God damn _does_!"

They stare at each other until the pot overflows, and Bucky is forced to haul it out and dump it over Steve's feet. Steve winces at the cold, but he doesn't say anything else. Bucky fills the tub methodically, and when Steve asks him, his voice soft, to give him some privacy, Bucky shuts himself in his room.

It's almost a relief. He sinks to his knees beside his bed, burying his face in his neatly-spread comforter, and lets the horror rip through him. He lets his front slip away, and he cries for Steve, because he knows Steve won't cry for himself.

He's so angry his hands fist in his hair and his breath stutters with the urge to _destroy_ , to hunt and mangle, and it scares him, this urge to draw blood, it scares him so much his heart twists in chest. More than that, though, it's fear for Steve. That fear gapes torn and black in the back of Bucky's heart, so vast and encompassing he doesn't dare look into it.

They have a fight when Steve's dressed again. Bucky wants to yell at him for all he's worth, but they can't, because Mrs. Ford is a shameless gossip. They hiss in whispers at each other over the drying rack, and Steve's fucking _stubbornness_ makes Bucky's anger spike. He snatches out a plate and throws it in the sink because it's better than throwing it at Steve Rogers's dumb face, and the deafening smash of it shocks them sober. Bucky swallows and tucks his hands under his armpits.

"You don't need to be on your own, Steve," he says, his voice cracking.

"Maybe I want to," Steve says back, his face set and blank. He disappears into his room, and Bucky is left staring once again at the calico curtain, sick and trembling. He leans against the sink and glares at the broken shards until he can bring himself to go back in his room.

He doesn't sleep that night.

The next morning, he almost calls in sick--but Steve's stubborn mule face, swollen and hot with bruises, accuses him silently over breakfast, and Bucky dresses shamefacedly. His thoughts are stuck on Steve the whole day through, and he nearly loses a thumb to the cutter from his woolgathering. He swallows back on his queasy spill of shock.

Another week passes, slow as molasses. Steve says nothing, and Bucky damn near pickles in his own strung-out nerves. He puts his ear to the ground; what he hears isn't any different than usual: _that Rogers kid got in a fight the other day, behind the diner, down the alley, on the neighborhood loan shark's doorstep, ain't that a thing?_ The only variation in the story is where, and who. Ten different gangs hate Steve's guts, and Steve hates them right back without a care for Bucky's heart.

He finds out the _who_ in mid-August, on a Friday afternoon. He's got groceries for the week, and he's tugging against his tie because it's the heavy heat of dog days, and sweat is sticking his collar to the back of his neck.

He sees Jake Morton hovering near the mouth of an alley, uncertain and curious as Bucky's Ma's cat over the wash water. There's a line of guys farther in, and Bucky hears muffled groans beyond, and he flushes, because while he doesn't line up himself, he knows it happens, and to whom. He pins Jake square to the wall with a look. "Your ma know you're taking up with this shit, Jake?"

Then Elmer Sullivan comes out of the alley, doing up his belt buckle. He's puffing a cigarette, and there's a sharp glint in his eye. "His ma don't need to know," he says. "Why you askin', Barnes? Too afraid to have a go yourself? Gotta take it out on men who don't got a live-in fairy of their own?"

Bucky's mouth goes dry. He knows his friendship with Steve isn't completely on the level among the neighborhood gossips. He knows Steve gets a lot of guff for his smallness, for his delicate prettiness; he knows Steve has to fight twice as hard as any other guy to prove himself. Bucky knows he himself has a reputation that ain't quite right, either, because Bucky Barnes doesn't whistle at the girls walking by, and he doesn't line up in back alleys for a gangbang. He's a nice boy, the gossips say, and girls don't mind stepping out with him, 'cause at the end of the night they'll still be nice girls, too.

It's a bad reputation to have among men like Elmer Sullivan, and Jake looks away, 'cause he knows it, too.

"Fuck no," Bucky says, squaring his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of anything." He says it because he has to, because if he doesn't he'll be at the end of the next alley, taking it up the ass for the next gang of guys Sullivan can drag up. His stomach roils, and he meets Sullivan's stare straight-on, taking his dare.

Sullivan doesn't say anything, just smiles and jerks his head in invitation. Bucky drops the grocery bags on an alley stoop. He looks at the guys lining the wall, takes in their boredom and impatience, and puts a firm hold on his anger. He bites it back and buries it deep as he can, because now's no time to chicken out, no matter how much the thought of what's coming turns his stomach. He wonders if they'll give him time to try and rub up a lift, or if they'll laugh at him for not getting it up like he should.

He's led around the corner, and the sounds of slapping flesh and jingling belt buckles come clear, and Bucky almost stumbles when he sees the fairy they've got pinned to a pile of shipping pallets. He can't see the poor bastard's face, there's another of Sullivan's stooges blocking the view, but he can see the guy behind him just fine, can see his prick obscene and red as he plows his ass, and how his fingers are drawing up bruises on the pale skin of the fairy's hips.

Then the man in front shifts, and Bucky freezes. For a minute his mind can't process what he's seeing, because he recognizes those hunched shoulders, that crooked nose, those thick dame's eyelashes. He recognizes Steve Rogers like he recognizes his own two hands, and Bucky's mind fuzzes out into static when he sees that Steve's hard and dripping despite the bruise blooming on his cheekbone. His eyes are closed, so he doesn't see Bucky; his face is drawn tight, and his fingers white-knuckled on the edge of the stack of pallets.

"Fuckin' whore can't get enough of it, huh?" the man holding Steve's hands down mutters. "Look at that, he's _panting_ for it--"

Sullivan comes up beside him. "Gonna take your turn with your fairy _roommate_ , Barnes?" He doesn't bother lowering his voice, and Steve jerks his head up, slackjawed and wide-eyed with dawning horror. Bucky doesn't have it in him to think; he hauls off and slugs Sullivan right in the jaw. He goes down like a sack of potatoes in the gutter.

The fight is short and dirty. Bucky is a decent fighter, what with all the scrapes Steve gets him into, but five guys is more than he can take on. Out of the corners of his eyes he sees Steve thrashing, but his blows are weak, and an open-handed slap to his good ear sends him toppling back to the pallets, dazed.

"Let him go, you jackasses!" He socks a guy in the stomach, but that leaves his back open for someone to land an elbow to his kidney. Bucky drops with a gasp. Sullivan grabs him by his shirtfront and punches him square in the face. Bucky sags, choking against the pressure of his tie.

"Two ways this can go, Barnes," he says. "One, you get in line and fuck your loudmouthed little whore of a roommate. I recommend it; he takes cock like a champ. Two, you get down on your knees next to him, and we'll see how many of us are ready for round two."

A dark round of chuckles filters through the men watching. Bucky blinks through the reflexive tears and sees Jake Morton, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He won't meet Bucky's eye.

"What'll it be, Barnes? You gonna be a real man, or am I tellin' the neighborhood you'se a cocksucker, too?"

"Go fuck yourself, Sullivan!" Steve's voice cracks through the alley, startlingly strong. Everyone stares at him for a moment.

Sullivan turns to face him. "What did you say to me?"

Steve's stretched and spread out over splintering wood, dripping sweat and come, and he still has the moxie to stare Elmer Sullivan square in the eye and say, "Everyone knows you work on your knees for a penny a suck."

 _Shit, Steve_ , Bucky thinks before Sullivan hauls off and punches Steve right in the floating rib. Steve presses his forehead into the splintered wood, gritting his teeth. He forces out a laugh. "That all you got? You hit like a fucking girl!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Make me, you limp-wristed son of a bitch!"

That brings Sullivan up short. He stares at Steve for a moment, the rusty cogs in his mind creaking and grinding as they struggle for a thought, and then he smiles, and it raises the hairs on the back of Bucky's neck.

"I think I know a way to get that mouth of yours to stop talking, Rogers," he says, and Steve shuts up in some God-blessed shred of instinct for self-preservation. Sullivan turns to Bucky--to the goons pinning him to the wall--and says, "Strip him."

They don't, not really; Sullivan has a pretty loose definition of "strip," it seems, but when his goons start yanking at Bucky's belt buckle he puts up a fight, no matter how much his head is pounding.

Then one of them pulls out a switchblade, the click of it loud in the alley despite the shouting, and the cold press of it against Bucky's neck sends a chill down his spine.

"Bucky!"

"That's right, faggot, yell for him," Sullivan sneers, watching Steve's exhausted struggling. "It's the last chance you'll get."

"Steve, for God's sake," Bucky says, but he doesn't know how to finish the sentence. Sullivan drags Steve up by the arm; Steve tries to punch him, but his swing goes wide.

"Cut it out, or I'll tell 'em to let the knife slip!" He throws Steve to his knees before Bucky, his shirt torn open and his pants down around his knees, and Bucky stares down at him, horrorstruck. Steve stares up at him, at the knife at his neck, and his expression hardens and grows resolute.

"No," Bucky whispers. "Steve, you don't--"

The edge of the knife digs into his skin, and he presses back into the wall on reflex. He swallows carefully; the man with the knife watches, a dark gleam in his eye.

"Get to it, fairy," Sullivan says.

Steve swallows.

"What, no smart words?"

"Fuck you," Steve manages weakly.

One of the goons laughs. "He's got it backwards." 

Sullivan grabs a handful of Steve's hair and drives his face into Bucky's crotch; Bucky closes his eyes, bites his lip, but Steve's breath is hot against his skin, and God help him--

Then he feels the warm, wet press of Steve's tongue on the head of his cock, and he can't stop the groan that squeezes out of him, low and traitorous in the crowded alley. He bunches his hands into fists, but the knife digs in, and this time he feels the sting as it cuts skin. He stills. His breath hitches as Steve takes him deeper.

Bucky's always wondered what a blowjob would feel like. He doesn't know a man who hasn't. But it's not something you ask a girl for, and he's never been desperate enough to hit up the fairies he sees loitering around the Navy Yard when the ships come in. He's no virgin, no sir, but _God_ , Steve's tongue pressing against the vein on the underside of his prick turns his knees to water.

It just makes Steve's obvious inexperience all the worse. It's sloppy, uncoordinated, tentative; he doesn't know what he's doing, and Bucky feels his face flame in humiliation as he hardens despite himself. He bites down on his lip, so hard he's surprised he hasn't drawn blood, to keep the apologies in. He won't show weakness in front of Elmer Sullivan. He can't.

"Look at him go," someone says. "Cocksuckin' lips livin' up to their name."

"Why didn't we do this earlier?"

Sullivan slaps the offending idiot upside the head. "You _want_ him to bite it off?"

Bucky opens his eyes, only to meet Steve's gaze, burning blue and hot as his lips stretch around Bucky's cock, and _oh fuck_ Bucky's blindsided by a burst of arousal at the depravity of the picture. Steve's lips are pink and swollen, slick with spit and pre-come, and Bucky feels low as the grime under his feet that he's getting off on it.

On Steve, open and dripping and kneeling so pretty, sucking him down like a whore--Bucky whines, his cock twitches and spurts, and he feels the knife cut into his neck as he buckles. He feels the flutter of Steve's throat choking around him, and Jesus wept, that only draws it out, stringing his orgasm along until he's a trembling mess. He wants to puke.

Sullivan pulls Steve's head back, and Bucky slips out of the warm heat of his mouth. He shivers at the touch of the alley air.

"How about that," Sullivan says, eyeing Steve's semi. "Looks like Rogers wants more."

"Better give it to him, then," the mook with the knife to Bucky's neck says.

"You want next go, O'Connor?"

The man sucks his teeth, and the knife trails over Bucky's jugular. "Nah. I'm good."

Sullivan shrugs. He points, and they haul Steve back to the stack of pallets, shoving him down against the weathered, warped boards and baring his ass to Bucky's view. Bucky tries to look away, but the guy on his other side drags his head back. "Look away again and I'll cut off your ears," O'Connor says. Bucky swallows down bile as he watches the next guy drops trou and push in. He sees Steve arch, sees his knuckles go white against the edge of the pallet, and he damn well hears the man's groan of pleasure.

"Still tight," he laughs. Bucky's cheeks burn, and anger kindles in his chest. 

The remainder of the nightmare passes in a blur. They won't let him button up, forcing him to kneel in the filth while Steve's spit dries on his cock. He watches, hollow, as the line of guys shortens in increments. His knees go completely numb after half an hour.

Bucky doesn't let himself count the number of men who have a go at Steve, just memorizes their faces. His own face is tight with rage, and his eyes feel like hot coals in his skull. He glares at Jake Morton until he backs away.

"No," he says, shaking his head.

"What, not even for a sweet bitch like this?"

Jake stares at Bucky, and Bucky stares back, and he shakes his head.

"I can't," he says. "Say what you want." He disappears around the corner.

Sullivan shrugs. "Carlisle, you're next."

One guy, narrow-faced and thin as a whippet--he's the worst of the lot, almost as bad as Sullivan, because when he takes his turn there's a calculating air to his thrusts, careful and slow until Steve lets out a strangled whimper. The man's chuckle is black and sour in the alley. Bucky stares, horrified, as Steve's cock perks up in earnest, until he's biting back noises that raise goosebumps over Bucky's shoulders.

 _Maybe he really is a..._ Bucky grits his teeth, clamping back on the thought before he can finish it. Not Steve. _Not_ Steve, who blushes when a pretty girl looks at him and goes to church every Sunday. Not Steve, who's God damn _fighting_ now, struggling against the hands pinning his shoulders and the hands on his hips riding him out, until one of them hits him with a punch that sends his head cracking into the planks. He collapses, his death-grip going slack. The narrow-faced man picks up where he left off, fucking into his stunned body until Steve's eyes flutter closed and his cock spits a stream of white onto the street. He doesn't cry, but Bucky can see the way his eyelashes clump together and darken with each ragged breath. Bucky can see the way he stops fighting.

The world goes red. Bucky surges to his feet, breaking his captors' grip; distantly he's aware of a line of heat across his neck, but then he's tearing the knife out of O'Connor's grip and knocking him into next week. He slashes at the other guy's midsection; he doesn't think it's that deep, but the man screeches like a banshee and drops like a rock.

Then he's across the alley, dragging the narrow-faced man off of Steve and throwing him into a row of trash cans. He's trembling with adrenaline when he pins Elmer Sullivan against the the tenement bricks. "You take your guys and you leave," he says, his voice shredded and low.

Sullivan's eyes are wide; Bucky can see the white all the way around. He says nothing, so Bucky raises the knife and rests the point right beneath his eye. "I said call 'em off," he says. "You hear me?"

"Barnes--"

Bucky turns to land the approaching man with a stare. The man falters; a distant part of Bucky's mind wonders how he looks now, his dick flapped out over his flies and the knees of his suit soaked with the slime of the street, and what sort of crazy must be in his eyes to shut him up so fast. He turns back to Sullivan.

"You hear me, pal?" he asks again, tapping the knife. "You leave, and your gang never touches Steve Rogers again, and I'll let you keep your eyes. What do you say?"

Sullivan's voice breaks. "Go on," he says. He clears his throat. "Get out of here! You heard him, we're done!"

One by one the guys slip away, some solemn and shocked, some disappointed, some with dark, hungry looks that make Bucky bare his teeth at them. The narrow-faced man is among the last, as well as the goon Bucky cut across the chest. Soon Sullivan's all that's left. Bucky glares at him. "I oughta cut off your balls for this," he says, his fingers tightening on the handle of the knife. Sullivan stares at them; Bucky can see sweat pricking along his forehead. He grabs his shirtfront and throws him down the alley.

"Get lost," he says, his voice flat with threat, and Elmer Sullivan gets, scrambling like a cowed child until he vanishes around the corner.

Bucky stares after him, trembling and dizzy, his hand cramping around the knife. He forces his fingers loose. It clatters on the ground; the sound jars him back to himself, and he turns back to Steve, fumbling himself back in his pants. His neck burns; he presses his fingers to the cut and they come away red.

Afternoon slipped into evening without him noticing. Steve's a broken shadow beside the pallets, curled up next to the puddle of his own spunk. He's wheezing against the cobbles. Bucky sinks to his aching knees and scoops him up, cradling him close, and finally, _finally_ he lets the tears fall. Steve lays there for a moment before he rouses and pushes Bucky back.

"Let go," he mumbles.

"Please," Bucky whispers, and Steve stills. There's a broken submission to it that turns Bucky's stomach. He gags on his shame and self-disgust and lets him go. Steve leans sideways against the pallets, keeping his weight on his hip.

"Ain't a fairy," he rasps to alley at large.

"I know," Bucky says, desperate to believe it. "I know you aren't. This doesn't change anything."

Steve sighs and begins the business of pushing himself upright. Bucky reaches out to help, but Steve pulls free, skittering stiffly away on his knees. "Don't--don't touch me," he says, and Bucky's heart breaks, even as tired anger stings through him.

"Not a God damn chance, Stevie," he says. "Let me fucking _help_ for once, okay?"

There's a heartbeat where Steve stubbornly tries to coordinate pulling up his trousers with weak arms, but he's trembling so badly his grip keeps slipping. He slumps against the weathered wood. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

Bucky swallows and hauls him upright, leaning him against his shoulder as he pulls up his underwear and pants. The buttons are torn on the fly, but he buckles the belt, and he thinks maybe that'll be enough to get them home. Bucky hauls them to their feet. Steve smells of blood, sweat, and come, and he sways like a drunk; Bucky thanks God for the cover of night.

They weave their way home.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr, if that floats your boat.


End file.
